Line of Sight - Mike Maden

by Tom Clancy

  All he needed was a little patience.

  A little faith.

  Allahu akbar!

  SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA

  Jack packed and scrambled out of the apartment, reminding himself to send his landlords a text when he got to the airport, apologizing for not cleaning up and for the broken pictures and asking them to bill his credit card for damages.

  He’d call Kolak after he arrived in the States and let him know about trash pickup. Bosnia and the United States had no extradition treaty, though Jack could reasonably claim self-defense if it came to that.

  This time he was smart enough to grab a retinal scan of his intended killer, along with the man’s fingerprints from apps on his iPhone. He also took the man’s wallet with credit cards and ID, as well as his cell phone, so that he could get those to Gavin for further analysis. He also grabbed the man’s car keys. Why pay for a cab if he didn’t have to?

  Down on the street he hit the key fob and a green Škoda sedan beeped. Jack opened the trunk to toss in his suitcase and spotted a gun bag. He zipped it open and found a Heckler & Koch MP7 machine pistol with iron sights. A sweet rig, firing a 4.6x30-millimeter round. The MP7 was one of Jack’s favorite weapons to shoot.

  He zipped the bag back up and tossed a blanket over it, hoping like hell the Bosnian police had no reason to pull him over and do a trunk check. If they did, it would be a guaranteed one-way ticket to the local hoosegow. But getting pulled over was unlikely on a day like today, when all of the cops would be tied up with the Renewal service at the soccer stadium, and the idea of having his own wheels appealed to him. He tossed his suitcase and laptop on top of the blanket, jumped in the car, and plugged the airport address into the dashboard GPS.

  Fortunately, he was driving against traffic, so the road was relatively clear in his direction. The traffic flooding into town was clogged with vehicles flying all manner of flags and banners; variations of double-headed Serbian eagles and Orthodox crosses and sometimes both, much the same way American Christians melded church and nationalism together. What really caught Jack’s attention was a flapping red-and-gold banner and the scowling Orthodox Jesus, his eyes dark and disapproving.

  Thirty minutes later, Jack pulled into the short-term parking lot and found a spot on the far end. He killed the engine and grabbed his bags out of the trunk. He locked it and pocketed the keys, figuring he’d toss them into the trash inside the lobby.

  He made a beeline for the glass doors of the small terminal, the familiar smell of jet fuel in the air and the sound of a turboprop revving on the taxiway suddenly putting him in a traveling mood. There was still enough time to make his 8:42 a.m. flight—but just barely. Before he crossed the parking lot his cell phone rang with Gerry’s distinctive ringtone.

  Jack was glad to get the call. He was finally at the airport, and that would make his boss happy.

  * * *

  —

  The Gulfstream 550 was making its approach to the Sarajevo International Airport. Following the entry point and radar vector instructions from the air traffic controller, the pilot dropped speed and altitude toward runway 12, the only arrival runway at the small but efficient facility. They were still five thousand feet in the air, but descending quickly through the clear September sky.

  “Man, looks like the 110 freeway before a Dodgers game,” Midas said, staring out of the window. “I’d hate to be driving around down there today. What’s going on?”

  “The Eastern Orthodox Church is holding some kind of big outdoor religious service in a few hours, according to the local news reports,” Adara said, powering down her laptop for landing. “Orthodox Christians from all over the region are showing up for it, including a bunch of politicians.”

  “Good thing we’re just picking Jack up at the FBO hangar, then,” Dom said. “No worries.”

  “And then home,” Midas said. “I’m tired of this snipe hunt.”

  * * *

  —

  Emir pressed the SA-25 Verba (“Willow”) MANPADS against his narrow shoulder with his gloved hands, his eye fixed to the sight. The Verba automatically acquired and tracked the low-altitude civilian jet, feeding target data to the onboard computer controlling the missile’s multispectrum optical seeker.

  Even if the small civilian aircraft carried anti-missile defenses such as flares, decoys, or laser systems like Sky Shield, the Verba’s advanced seeker could discriminate between them and the actual target. The latest Russian anti-aircraft missile could take out high-flying, supersonic NATO warplanes and cruise missiles, making it the most feared portable MANPADS in the Russian arsenal. A low-speed, low-altitude civilian airplane like the one he was tracking was no match against it.

  The Verba was just one of the many stolen gifts bestowed upon AQAB by the Syrian captain and his Chechen lieutenant, Dzhabrailov.

  He pulled the trigger. The solid-fuel 9M336 missile roared out of its tube, launching the high-explosive 1.5-kilogram warhead at supersonic speed toward the hapless civilian jet. The missile trailed a long finger of white exhaust as it clawed its way into the air.

  Within seconds, the warhead slammed into the aircraft’s thin aluminum skin in a thundering explosion, shattering the fuselage in a fiery cloud of twisted metal.

  58

  Jack whipped around at the sound of the booming explosion of the Verba missile eighteen hundred feet above. Its arcing smoke trail pointed to its launch origin west of the airfield, a mile away, maybe more. The plane’s burning wreckage plunged toward the earth, leaving a trail of smashed luggage and cabin debris fluttering in its wake.

  “Dear God,” Jack whispered, his eyes widening.

  Broken bodies were tumbling through the sky, some still strapped to their seats.

  One of those bodies should have been his.

  He fought back a wave of nausea.

  It suddenly occurred to him that Gerry’s ass-chewing phone call in the parking lot earlier had just saved his life.

  Gerry had instructed him to forget his Vueling flight and instead make his way over to the fixed-base operator hangar, where arrangements had already been made for the Hendley Associates Gulfstream to land and pick him up. Gerry warned Jack that Midas and Dom were instructed to put him on the Gulfstream “by any means necessary.” Jack had left the main terminal and come over to this private hangar to wait.

  The Gulfstream was still ten minutes out. Then it suddenly hit him. He was supposed to be on that Vueling fight, but he’d purchased a ticket for Aida, too.

  Maybe that missile was meant for her?

  Jack grabbed his phone and punched in her number, but his phone rang with Dom’s number.

  “Jack, it’s me. What the hell just happened down there?”

  “Somebody took out a passenger jet. The one I was supposed to be on.”

  “You must be in some kind of shit, all right, cuz. Look, the air traffic controller just put us on hold. They’re not allowing any flights in or out until they can assess the situation on the ground. We’ve got enough fuel to loiter for another forty minutes, but if it gets beyond that, we’ll have to land somewhere else and then come get you by car.”

  “Dude, I gotta go—”

  “Hold on, Jack! The whole point of us coming to get you was to get your ass out of the fire. Don’t you go running back into it, or Gerry’ll have my hide.”

  “Why did he send you all the way over here to pick me up, anyway?” Jack glanced at the burning black cloud mushrooming in the distance.

  “He didn’t send us just to pick you up. We’re over in this neck of the woods chasing leads on this outfit called the Iron Syndicate.”

  “Yeah, Gerry mentioned it. Something to do with that crazy woman in Slovenia that tried to kill me.”

  “One and the same. Maybe they’re the ones that fired that missile.”

  “Don’t think so. They’ve got a
thing about collecting my head.”

  “Unless they changed their thing.”

  “I gotta go.”

  “Stay put, Jack. We’ll be there in a few.”

  “Can’t wait. Track my phone if you want to find me.” Jack killed the call and dialed Aida again. The phone rang until it went to voice mail.

  “Aida, it’s me, Jack. Call me back as soon as you get this. I need to know you’re okay.”

  He hung up.

  Jack wasn’t clear in his own mind who had done it. Serb nationalists? The Mafia? The Russians? Maybe even Kolak? Shit, Jack thought. It was like the fucking Star Wars cantina around here.

  They all had it in for her.

  Jack called the refugee center. Another voice mail. He hung up, called the Happy Times! tour office. Voice mail again.

  Jack’s anxiety spiked.

  Shit!

  Now what?

  He could drive to the tour office or the refugee center, but traffic was miserable going back into the city. No point in trying to navigate that if he couldn’t be sure she would be at either location.

  But her place out in the country was west of here, away from the traffic. That was his best bet. Chances were she’d turn up there eventually, if she was okay.

  He patted the keys in his pocket, glad he hadn’t tossed them into the trash yet, and ran back toward the parking lot, praying the Škoda hadn’t been towed.

  * * *

  —

  The Škoda hadn’t been towed, fortunately, and Jack sped out of the lot as fast as he could without breaking the law, grateful for the Bosnian marks he still had in his pocket to pay the ticket to leave.

  Jack hit the main road, heading west, driving the speed limit. He didn’t want to get pulled over for any reason, let alone the MP7 that was now stashed underneath his seat, locked and loaded. He found an English-language news station on the radio. It was already reporting the jet crash.

  “Authorities believe the Vueling Embraer E-170 aircraft was destroyed with a shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missile. As many as sixty-six passengers may have been on the flight, though the number has not yet been confirmed. No survivors are expected. The Serbian National Front for the Liberation of Bosnia and Herzegovina has claimed credit for the attack on social media sites . . .”

  “Sonsofbitches,” Jack said out loud, his anger boiling over at the Serb nationalists who could murder innocent people like that.

  But in his head he heard Kolak’s “three narratives” lecture again. Three sides to every fact. There had been a lot of local attacks by all sides lately, and all of them escalating. It was hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys.

  Jack wondered if the Serbian National Front really was behind the attack.

  Or if the SNF even existed.

  He drove along in silence for a while, listening to the story repeat every few minutes. Nothing new to report, except for denials by Serb politicians and activists, claiming it was a false-flag attack by either Croats or Muslims, meant to detract from the Orthodox Renewal service later that day.

  Were they telling the truth? Or covering their tracks?

  Who knew in this crazy place?

  Jack followed the little blue arrow on the dashboard GPS. Part of his PERSEC training early on with The Campus was to always memorize new locations, as he’d done when Aida drove him to her place yesterday. He thought he could have found it on his own, but the GPS was too handy to ignore on the winding mountain road.

  He prayed to God that she was there, and that she was safe.

  59

  Twenty-five minutes later, Jack made the turn off the asphalt and followed the hard-packed dirt road toward Aida’s compound behind the trees. He saw the top of the two-story chalet peeking above the pines and his pulse raced. Last night with her had seared itself deep in his soul.

  When Jack’s Škoda cleared the trees and entered the compound, he saw two vehicles, a black Renault coupe and Aida’s Happy Times! Volkswagen T5 tour van.

  Two bearded Bosniaks were loading heavy canvas duffels into the van. They glanced up when they saw Jack, their eyes flashing with concern. They exchanged a look, dropped their duffels in the dirt, and reached behind them—

  Jack knew that move all too well.

  He slammed the brakes, shoved the shifter into reverse, and crushed the throttle. The Škoda leaped backward at the first crack of pistol rounds.

  Bullets spanged against the front grille and spiderwebbed the windshield as Jack navigated through the rear window, steering with one hand. Suddenly the rear window exploded into tiny glass nuggets, some of them hitting Jack in the face. Instinctively, his driving arm jerked and the Škoda swerved hard off the road and slammed into a tree.

  BAM!

  Front and side airbags exploded open as Jack was jerked hard and forward by the crash, slamming his face into one. He was slathered in talcum powder from the bag storage, and blinded by the big balloons of air. As he reached for his seat belt release, the passenger bag burst with a pop, punctured by a nine-millimeter round.

  Jack grabbed the MP7 and rolled out of the driver’s-side door, using it as a shield against the slugs thudding into the steel panel.

  Jack dove and rolled for the nearest tree, racked the charging handle, then stood and took aim through the iron sights at the first man racing toward him. He unleashed a short burst, opening the man’s chest like a reciprocating saw. The joule force of the speeding projectiles smashed against the Bosniak’s upper torso like steel fists, clotheslining him. His feet kicked out from under him as his back slammed to the ground.

  In the two eyeblinks it took to dispatch him, the other Bosniak had cleared the far side of the Škoda and taken aim at Jack. He got off three rounds from his pistol, splintering the bark near Jack’s face, before Jack unleashed leaded fury, tearing open the man’s throat and walking rounds up into his mouth in a spray of teeth and blood until the magazine emptied. The man was dead by the time he tumbled into the dirt.

  Jack checked for more tangos, but none were visible. He popped open the trunk and fished around for another mag, but he couldn’t find one. He tossed the useless rifle back into the trunk and slammed it shut.

  His heart was racing, but not because he was afraid.

  He had to find Aida.

  Now.

  * * *

  —

  Jack dashed past the ruined Škoda, keeping as close to the trees as possible for cover. He stopped at the clearing and knelt down, scanning the compound from nine o’clock to three o’clock, looking for more shooters, but there were none. There was no movement in the chalet windows, either, and the front door was open, just as the dead shooters had left it.

  The Volkswagen van hadn’t moved and no one was in it. Same with the Renault coupe. The two heavy green canvas duffels lay in the dirt where the Bosniaks had dropped them.

  He knelt down to open one when he heard a woman scream.

  * * *

  —

  Jack!”

  The terrified scream came from inside, and it was Aida’s voice. Jack bolted for the porch, slamming his back against the wall.

  “Aida!”

  No answer.

  No gun. No knife. Nothing but his fists. If there was anyone else inside with a gun, he didn’t stand a chance.

  He didn’t care.

  Jack dashed inside, sweeping his eyes left, then right.

  Nobody.

  Just the heavy dining table where he and Aida had eaten dinner last night, an open laptop on top.

  He listened.

  Nothing.

  No, wait.

  Sobbing.

  Jack ran for Aida’s bedroom, kicking the door open. She lay on the bed, fetal, wrapped in a blanket.

  “Aida!”

  He rushed to the bed. Knelt down next to her, still sobbing
. “Are you hurt?”

  He rolled her over, carefully.

  Aida’s sobs slowed. Her face was covered in her thick hair.

  “Oh, Jack.”

  He leaned over her, gently pushing her hair aside.

  “Aida.”

  Her face broke into an aching smile.

  And then a laugh.

  “Oh, Jack. My beautiful idiot.”

  She jammed a Makarov pistol beneath his jaw, her wide blue eyes bright with mischief.

  A pistol racked behind his head.

  She laughed again. “You are so fucked.”

  Yeah. He was.

  Idiot.

  * * *

  —

  Jack was duct-taped to one of the low-backed wooden chairs from the dining table, from the middle of his shoulders to his elbows. Even his wrists were taped together, his palms touching as if in prayer, and his forearms lay helpless in his lap.

  Aida sat at the table, tapping keys on the laptop next to a burner phone.

  No wonder she never picked up her smartphone, Jack thought.

  Emir carried a wooden crate, a chromed Colt 1911 .45 shoved into his waistband. “Last one.” He nodded toward Jack. “And then we can go.”

  By which he means time for me to die.

  He hardly cared. He was raging and ashamed, all at the same time.

  She’d played him, big-time. How could he not have seen it coming?

  Because I’ve been a damned idiot, that’s how. Thinking with my head instead of my brain.

  “I’ll be ready,” Aida said, as Emir stepped into the harsh morning light.